Escapism or Activism...or both

by Mary Reiman

My intention was to begin this year writing with a lighter tone, perhaps even trying to be funny now and then. That seems easier, lighter, less stressful. 

If I never pick up a newspaper, listen to the news, check my various feeds/subscriptions arriving daily to the inbox, have a conversation or hear a conversation, I can live in my happy land.  If in isolation, I can watch the dog videos and baby elephant reels my friends recommend.

In other words, I am attempting escapism: the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy. There are moments in time when we all probably want to escape from reality. This was one of those weeks.

Unfortunately, it’s more difficult to not watch any news than I thought it would be. My family in California may be far enough away from the fires, maybe not. My family in Florida piloting in less than friendly skies during this tumultuous weather. However, woven in amongst the news I care about are other segments I can’t wrap my head around. Those that make my blood pressure rise. Those that make me worry about so many people in so many places. Of all the things technology can do, I wish there was an algorithm that would allow me to see the news stories I want to see and delete the others. Maybe there is such a thing I’ve simply not found yet.

For now, I am working on finding a balance. For a few moments each day, I simply look for an escape, learning something new that is not filled with angst. Locating new bits of trivia to be a better conversationalist, so I can talk about something other than the mayhem of the day. Here are a few:  

WORD DAILY  https://worddaily.com/  What I love most is that it also has the audio of the pronunciation, in case I ever really find a way to work these words into conversations. Think about how you might use these words this week.

Obstreperous: noisy and difficult to control

Picaresque: Relating to an episodic style of fiction dealing with the adventures of a rough and dishonest but appealing hero

Dekko: A quick look or glance

Logy: Dull and heavy in motion or thought; sluggish

WORD SMARTS https://wordsmarts.com/  Haven’t you wondered where various phrases came from?

Was “Nervous Nellie” a Real Person?

Why Do We Call It “the Elephant in the Room”?

How Do You Properly Use an Ellipsis?  (I really needed to learn this one....I love ellipses!)

INTERESTING FACTS https://interestingfacts.com/

Washington, D.C., is the country’s 9th capital (can you name all 9?)

The first cross-country road trip in a car took 63.5 days (what year was that?)

People used to clean their hands with coffee (why?)

I learn something new each day and the learning gives me a focus for my thoughts. Not looking back on how we arrived at this place and time, not looking forward to what might happen tomorrow, focusing on today. 

And as I focus, I gather strength. To act, advocate, be resolute in fighting for goodness and kindness and mercy as described by Bishop Budde. 

Yes, it is again time to be writing our senators regarding the many bills before our legislature this session.

Advocating for the right to continue to vote by mail. It has worked well in our state and has been appreciated by those of us who have been working or out of town on election day. The need for a change?

Questioning why a senator would bring forth a bill after it was rejected by the voters last year. LB 624 was repealed by 57% of Nebraska’s in the last election. Have they forgotten how we voted? 

Asking why some senators are worried about the way our electoral system works. Why is winner-take-all so important? Doesn’t it seem fair to reflect the votes of all constituents?

For all of our concerns, let our views be known, let our voices be heard, let us be strong. May we all use our power and strength to do just that.

Yes, I am worried about our state, our country, our world. I don’t know how you are coping, but I have to find ways to balance my thinking. With no end to the mayhem in sight, my daily mantra will be:

Escapism AND Activism...I need both.

An Inauguration on Martin Luther King Day

By Marilyn Moore

The ultimate in irony will be on Monday, January 20, 2025, when Donald Trump is inaugurated as the United States 47th president…on the day set aside to commemorate, to celebrate, to remember, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  I shall exert no energy on this day commenting on the 47th president; I suspect there will be ample opportunities to do so nearly every day, beginning, perhaps with the first “shock and awe” of executive orders. Later, my friends, stay tuned.

Today, however, I turn again to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., a pastor, a preacher, a teacher, a dreamer, a peace maker, a man of courage, a leader.  My favorite Martin Luther King quote comes from the letter he wrote while jailed in Birmingham, where he had gone to participate in non-violent civil rights protests.  While there, he and many others were arrested.  He was urged by white clergy persons (well, white clergymen), to leave Birmingham, to wait for a better time to wage a protest.  His letter was in response to those clergy, who assured him they agreed with the cause, but that it was too soon to take a stand.   

That letter was published in many formats, including a small book, which has been in my “close at hand” stack of books for many years.  From that letter is the MLK quote that I have read over and over.  “I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be worried about what happens in Birmingham.  Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied to a single garment of destiny.  Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly.”  The beauty, and intensity, of the phrasing…."an inescapable network of mutuality, tied to a single garment of destiny."

The single garment of destiny is to me a great shawl, long enough and strong enough to reach around the world, gathering all lands and peoples within its fold.  It is woven from countless threads, some of which are course, while others are fine.  Some are tough, some are fragile.  Some are stronger than they look, others are much less so.  The threads are of all hues, from the palest of pearls to the darkest of midnight.  Some sparkle, others provide the depth that allows the sparkle to be seen.  The weave is loose and soft in some places; in others, the weave is tight and firm.  

In some places the shawl is so stressed by weather and war and catastrophes and famine that the weave is damaged, and holes and tears appear.  At its best, the shawl is self-healing, with surrounding threads re-weaving the broken places, drawing in new threads to strengthen and sustain.  At its non-best, the holes grow, more threads are damaged, and the effort to repair grows harder with each passing day…and yet, in some way, the shawl hangs together.

This is our country, our world, as I see it now.  Holes, caused by racism, by poverty, by greed, by desperation, by climate change, by selfishness, by uncertainty.  Helpers, and thank God for the helpers, who work in whatever place they find themselves, to mend…to build bridges, to set a larger table, to share whatever they have to share, to teach and to nurture and to heal and to fight fires, to utter words of kindness and assurance, while offering a cup of water, a winter coat, a warm meal, a helping hand.  And thank God for the helpers who speak up, who address root causes of the holes, who engage in works of justice and policy for the civic good.  It is exhausting work to mend the holes.  It is exhausting work to seek remedies that will end the assaults on our single garment of destiny.  Both are necessary, indeed, essential, if the garment is to hold.

A most meaningful image of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for me is the one found in Washington DC, where the sculptor shows him stepping forward from the block of granite that forms him.  It’s as if the sculpture is not yet finished, as if Dr. King is striding forward to the next whatever – cause, speech, protest, opportunity.  I cannot imagine how weary he must have been, how discouraging the cause of civil rights must have seemed, how far the dream must have been in the future.  Like all good leaders, he kept the dream before him, kept it alive in those around him, and persisted in the day-to-day work…striding forward.  

The next four years seem daunting to me, as values that I hold dearly, like first amendment protections and voting rights and strong international relations and access to reproductive health care and protections for those who are homeless and ill and poor and who face discrimination for their race or religion or gender, are likely to be assaulted.  At this age and stage of my life, I had hoped that some political battles would no longer be necessary.  Hoping does not make it so; the battles are before us.  

The gift of this age and stage of life is a sense of less constraint on my voice. I do not have a job to protect.  I do not have an employer to consider.  I have time to read, to research, to write letters and emails, to contact policy makers.  If Dr. King can stride forward from a block of granite, I can write a letter, make a phone call.  Because, to quote Dr. King again, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about the things that matter.”  

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A bonk on the head, emergency rooms and laughter ... life is about what you don’t see coming

By Mary Kay Roth

Leaving a friend’s house earlier this week, I whizzed around a blind corner just outside their front door and bonked my head on a low-hanging roof’s edge. Man, it hurt, but I forged ahead and hopped into my car to drive home.

A couple blocks later I realized something warm was running down my face,  the side of my head, and when I reached up to check – my hand was covered in blood. Grabbing a blanket from the passenger’s seat, I attempted to put pressure on my head while driving a stick shift … then determined I needed to find the nearest emergency room. 

Now, I pause here for a moment in my blog to try and remember exactly what I was thinking about when I came zooming out of that house – all the bits and bobs, odds and ends of a worrisome brain: An impending-scary-new president, the brutality of California wildfires, strategies to stop my dog from jumping up on people, how to help friends hurting from broken health, Ukraine and drones, tariffs and debt limits, the always-daunting task of stowing away holiday decorations.  

But I can definitely tell you the one thing I wasn’t worried about: Ramming my head into a roof and landing in a very crowded emergency room. 

So, I’ll start with this handy tip. You can get fast-tracked into an ER exam room when you walk into the place looking like a zombie, blood caked through your hair and over your face.

I would also add another tip. When you stop by the ER at night, always expect a bit of the odd and unusual.

My visit began with a very kind but very beginner nurse who sat me on an exam table and decided the best way to clean out my hair – so the doc could unearth the wound – was to pour water over my head, soaking all my clothes as well as all the sheets on the ER table. Whoa. 

Eventually an efficient, wise and likely overworked physician arrived to examine my head, determining the necessary appropriate medical protocol.  But his probing fingers re-opened my head wound.  

Hence, the nurse re-doused my head with water, then attempted some sort of makeshift compress with a thick rubber band winding around my head that kept popping off.  I volunteered to hold the gauze myself.

At some point the doctor returned holding up a very visible syringe and staple gun, at which point I finally admitted I was just a little scared.

“Why?” the doc asked in amazement, then proceeded to work his magic. 

A couple hours after arriving – after a tetanus shot, many shots of lidocaine and five staples – I was numb, soggy and ready to go home. 

“You’re fine to take a shower and gently wash the blood out of your hair,” the doc advised.

“But what can’t I do?” – I asked.

He paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t go scuba diving.”

Ultimately, wearing a dry pair of hospital sweats, I gingerly walked back to my car, plopped down upon a seat of dried blood and started to laugh.

I think I’m writing this blog to figure out why.

Of course, there were plenty of people in the ER room that night who would not be going home nearly as quickly as I was – plenty of people without insurance and without easy access to health treatment.  I’ve had some whopping headaches over the past few days, but quality medical care has already commenced the healing.  

I was lucky. Ultimately, on that fateful ER night, I found my way home, safe and sound, a place untouched by fire or horrific smoke, a place offering a hot shower and a cup of tea.

Lessons learned?  

My kids roll their eyes when I tell them the universe tries to send you messages. But I truly believe when you don’t listen to that gentle, cosmic tap on the shoulder – ultimately you get a bop on the head.

The trick, of course, is to heed the call.

Over the past few months I’ve attempted to calculate strategies for surviving the next four years of possible calamity, exploring ways to salvage a spirit ragged from the injustices of humankind.

News flash, I don’t believe charging through life – while weighed down with apprehension and unease – is gonna help much.  Because living is almost never what you fret about and almost always what you never see coming. 

Possible new course of action?

There’s an old movie called Broadcast News in which a main character sets aside a certain number of minutes daily – with a timer – and forces herself to cry.

Perhaps I need that kind of contained worry.

Or maybe I need to wear a helmet.  Body armor.

I know this much: For New Year’s this year there will be no huge proclamations or resolutions.  Mostly I’m promising to worry less, laugh more, quiet my soul and – good grief – slow down.

Because when you charge ahead spinning around unknown corners, you very well might plow into low-hanging obstacles. 

But when you brake, decelerate and pause, you’re just as likely to find the beauty of a sunrise – someone with open arms to give you a hug – the melody of a favorite song – a grandchild’s smile – the love of a friend – a crackling fireplace – your dog’s soulful eyes.

Singer Billie Eilish tells us: “There are always going to be bad things. But you can write it down and make a song out of it.”

Or write it down and make a blog out of it.

Or – staples out in 10 days – just go scuba diving.

A look back with interest and love

5 Women Mayhem is pausing on this early January day to reflect on a year in which we wrote about wintering, our angst about some of our Nebraska leaders’ decisions, the prairie and a few of our favorite things and places. We had some things to say about how language matters, about our public schools, politics, power and rain. We told you about our mishaps, imperfect moments and the search for light, when darkness fell on us. We ended the year with our revelations about self-therapy. Thank you all for coming along in 2024. And stick with us in 2025. We’re not sure what and how, but the new year is bound to be interesting.

 

In the meantime, enjoy with us a look back at a few excerpts from the past year. 

Marilyn Moore, The Secret Bookshelf, Feb. 22, 2024:

Among the books that have been banned the most are classics.  To Kill a Mockingbird.  Catcher in the Rye.  The Diary of Anne Frank.  Is there a reader anywhere who hasn’t paused to think about justice after reading To Kill a Mockingbird?  Or a teenage boy anywhere who hasn’t found himself somewhere in the pages of Catcher in the Rye?  Or a student learning about WWII who hasn’t felt it all up close and personal after reading the story of Anne Frank?  Or who hasn’t pondered the future of the world after reading 1984 or Brave New World?  I get it, to some readers these books may have been dull, or uninteresting.  But is that a reason to ban them?

No, these books aren’t banned because they’re dull or uninteresting.  They’ve banned because they made somebody uncomfortable, or they caused someone to think they would make a student uncomfortable.  They make me uncomfortable, too.  Shouldn’t a miscarriage of justice make us uncomfortable?  Shouldn’t we vow “Never again,” when we read Anne Frank’s story?  Shouldn’t we be nervous about how easily truth can become lies and lies can become truth?  Of course we should, that’s what education is…to confront knowledge we didn’t know, and expand our understanding of the world in the process. 

Mary Kay Roth, The Darkness of a January Night, January 8, 2024:

As dusk settles early on these January evenings, something quietly shifts inside as we pull winter nights around us like a warm, frothy comforter, diving into the deep cozy cave of hibernation.

Sadly, from childhood on, darkness gets a bad rap, a scary monster to approach with shivers and trepidation. Look up “dark” in a Thesaurus and you’ll find words like bleak, dismal, dreary. 

If we truly allow winter to be our teacher, however, the darkness of a January night asks us to hug close – retreat and rest – discover its gifts and magic. Behind all the dark, long nights and cold winter mornings, there is something incredibly beautiful happening.  

Our bodies heal and grow in the dark while we sleep. Dreams dance in the dark. Music sounds infinitely better with lights off.  And throughout the coming months we will marvel at the unfailing human ability to find light in the middle of the darkest season.

JoAnne Young, Words to the Wise (Women), April 6, 2024:

Language is the next frontier that needs to be conquered in equalizing genders. It can tell us about the nature and extent of the inequality of women.

Power. Control of our own lives. Our own bodies. We are still struggling from centuries of limited power and limited control. There are people now – politicians, lawmakers, judges, influencers, swaths of the influenced – who would drag us back into the dark ages, who would decide how we should behave, spend our time, walk, talk, dress, and wear our hair. 

 Sticks and stones may break your bones but, as many scholars will tell you, words actually can hurt you. The link between language and culture is forever entangled, Montell says, and continues to reflect and reinforce power structures and social norms. The time has come, she says, to challenge how and why we use language the way we do. That means questioning the words we speak every day. And the words used, even when someone thinks they are being supportive. 

Penny Costello, A Few of our Favorite Vacation Sites and Sights, “There’s No Place Like Home,” April 22, 2024:

There are a lot of places in the world I have yet to see, and I do hope to see them before I’m through. I’ve had the pleasure of living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in Colorado, in Minnesota, and here in Nebraska. And I’ve found much to love and appreciate about all of those landscapes. 

But I’m a mountain girl at heart. And that started with my great good fortune of being born and raised in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The ranch I grew up on was ten miles north of Rapid City, and eight miles east of the foothills. I gazed upon them every day. To the north, I could see and feel Bear Butte, or Mato Paha to the Lakota, a long dormant volcano that juts up out of the prairie and is sacred to the Cheyenne and Lakota People. I grew up not only seeing but feeling those mountains in my soul. 

My grandmother used to drive us kids through the hills, showing us where our grandfather would drive his cattle in the summer to graze. Once in a while, my mom would say to me with a twinkle in her eye, “Let’s go play tourist!” And we’d spend the day driving through the hills, visiting attractions, and loving that time together.

My memories are filled with time spent camping with family, and hiking with my friends. And as I got older, I learned about the complex history of white settlement of the area, the displacement of Native tribes that had been there for thousands of years, and the spiritual power and significance of that place.

Mary Reiman, A Few of Our Favorite Things, “Making Rolls,” February 12, 2024:

I love making rolls. I love the process as much as the product. Maybe more. 

The recipe was given to me long ago, in my first year of teaching. It was a perfect Saturday activity because it includes a beginning and an end, with a final product. In teaching, we finish a semester, or a year, and send students on their way, often wondering how they are doing, or where they have landed in life. In baking, I see the result of my work. 

There is no mixer or bread machine involved in this recipe. I use my hands to get the right consistency before punching the dough (OK...maybe there’s a bit of aggression alleviated at that point). The stickier the dough, the better. Watching it rise, getting out the rolling pin, cutting and shaping, and then brushing with butter (because everything really is better with butter). There’s nothing quite like the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting through the house. 

As important as the baking, is sharing with others. Packaging them and rushing off to deliver while they are still warm. It’s my way of letting friends know they are important to me. 

Sharing the love and joy of something made by the hand, and from the heart. 

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